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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25120849">it was always burning (since the world's been turning)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardesacrilicas/pseuds/tardesacrilicas'>tardesacrilicas</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>80's Music, Alcohol, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Pre-Season/Series 01, S3 spoilers, Suddenly Tender Jon Sims, everyone is happy and nothing bad has happened, jon's powers manifest in an unexpected way. his eldritch puberty, karaoke as therapy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:01:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,412</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25120849</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardesacrilicas/pseuds/tardesacrilicas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim celebrates Sasha's Birthday Eve by taking everyone in the Archives to a themed karaoke night. Jon's powers manifest rather unexpectedly, and Martin has some realizations.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, or the beginning of it</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>158</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>it was always burning (since the world's been turning)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I thought of the archives gang singing 80's hits, and then I couldn't stop thinking<br/>title is from We Didn't Start The Fire!</p><p>big thanks to:<br/>@aeli-tan-art (on Tumblr) for <a href="https://aeli-tan-art.tumblr.com/post/619805070318616576/karaoke-night-at-the-magnus-institute">drawing the main inspiration for this fic</a><br/>cell block mango (on Discord) for beta-reading this<br/>and Jeff (everywhere) for the editing. she made this 300% better. jeff I love youUU</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tim knocks twice and then slides inside the office. He leans on the door frame, staring at Jon until the sheer pressure of his overbearing presence gets him to look up from his papers. Jon’s frowning, as usual, and the glance he throws at Tim is an unkind question.</p><p>Tim rolls his eyes fondly. Sometimes, he thinks what bothers Jon about working in the archives isn’t having to clean up the mess Gertrude left behind or the spooky atmosphere that puts them on edge. Rather, it’s that down in the Archives, everyone knows <em> everything</em>.</p><p>Which means that birthday parties are inescapable. </p><p>In fact, Tim has made it his personal goal to make them both unavoidable and fun. Difficult, when Jon is involved, but not impossible. Almost a success for Martin’s birthday, bar emulsifiers infodump. </p><p>“We are going to head out in a couple minutes,” Tim starts. </p><p>Jon takes out his glasses. “Right,” he says, and by his tone Tim can guess what’s coming next. It’s Jon’s signature strategy, the one that got him out of countless office happy hours when both of them worked in Research: “Tim, I have a lot of work to get through tonight, so I think I won’t be able to join you.”</p><p>“<em>Jon</em>. You have to step away from work for a while.”</p><p>“Well, yes, but…”</p><p>“<em>It’s</em> <em>for Sasha</em>,” he replies before Jon can finish talking. It helps that Tim’s also been hyping up the event the entire week: today, he even came to work early just to help Martin decorate her desk as part of the celebrations of Sasha’s Birthday Eve.</p><p>It’s also good that Tim was the one to come and let him know about the carpooling: Jon might have even enjoyed saying no to Martin.</p><p>It looks like it’s working. Jon sighs. “Where did you say we were going?”</p><p>“There’s this place she really likes—they do themed Karaoke Fridays.” </p><p>“Oh, god. What’s the theme?”</p><p>He grins, and Jon’s eyes widen at the realization of what this means. “<em>Please</em>, Tim, tell me that Take On Me being blasted for <em> half an hour </em> this morning has nothing to do with this.”</p><p>Tim winks at him. “See you at the entrance in five.”</p>
<hr/><p>Sasha leans against the bar counter, nodding to the man taking their order. “Thank you”, she says. Then she turns to her left to look at Tim, raising her voice so he hears her amongst the bustle of the place. “And thank you, too, for setting all this up.”</p><p>It had surprised her that he took it so seriously. She expected something like Jon’s birthday (a bottle of wine, a surprise, Elias coming down to say something weirdly ominous), not a full-blown excursion for the Archives team. She had just mentioned in passing that <em>actually, Tim, I really like karaoke, </em> and <em>there is this pub near my house, I’ll beat your ass any Friday. </em> </p><p>She would say he had overdone it, but after a year of knowing him, she’s come to terms with the fact that “overdoing it” seems to simply be his style. </p><p>“Nothing to thank me for,” he replied, and grinned, gesturing at the crowd. “I do it for the people.”</p><p>“Yes, your sheer religious devotion to your co-workers.”</p><p>He shrugged and dramatically put his hand to his chest. “What can I say? I’m a martyr.”</p><p>Sasha laughed, then pointed at Jon. “You’ll get to see him sing, at least.”</p><p>“<em>No way </em>is <em>he </em>singing. I doubt he’s ever hummed a tune in his life.”</p><p>“Well, <em> I </em> like to think that he could surprise us. Wait until his seventh drink.”</p><p>“More like his third. And then… a Sims rendition of <em> Lay All Your Love On Me. </em>”</p><p>“<em>That </em> might actually kill me.”</p><p>“Better than, I don’t know, <em> Total Eclipse Of The Heart. </em>”</p><p>“Hey! What do you have against power ballads?”</p><p>“Just this one. I’ve heard it so many times, and always it’s <em>really? Do better. </em>” </p><p>She slams her drink down in mock anger with an affected gasp. “I <em> cannot </em>believe you would <em>dare </em>say this, to me, the day <em>before </em>my birthday. You absolute <em> fiend</em>.”</p><p>“What can I say? I’m strongly principled,” Tim retorts, chuckling. </p><p>Her gaze naturally falls upon where their booth is. Martin and Jon are sitting awkwardly in front of one another, drowning in a silence that feels distinctly uncomfortable, even from 15 meters away. “Oh, god, poor Martin.”</p><p>Tim sighs. “Operation save Martin is a go. In 3, 2, 1...”</p>
<hr/><p>Martin can’t remember the last time he was out on a Friday night, and he’s not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. It’s not like watching <em> Binging With Babish </em>episodes beats seeing his coworkers attempt a Freddie Mercury impression (and ostensibly fail), but these places are always louder than he remembers, and he doesn’t really drink, and doesn’t really enjoy being on a stage, not that he can sing anyway—</p><p>And yet it’s not as bad as it could be, he thinks, cheering with Sasha as Tim walks to the stage, an improvised low platform lit from the front by a color-changing spotlight. There is a screen in the upper-left corner of the stage but, since it faces the audience, it is rendered virtually useless to whoever is upstage. Not that Tim needs it. In fact, the stern look on his face makes it look like he’s rehearsed for this moment for years. Then the lights onstage turn bright orange, and the song begins.</p><p>Tim had made a joke about taking out the <em>heavy artillery</em>, but it’s not until Martin hears the first notes of the song that he realizes what is about to happen. He starts singing, loud, off-key, determined to blatantly <em>not care </em>about this. Martin’s giggling and can feel Sasha shaking with laughter next to him. Even in the semi-darkness of the pub, he thinks he can see a small glint of his boss’ smile, an idea that surprises him. </p><p>“What he doesn’t possess in vocal talent, he… certainly makes up for in enthusiasm,” Jon notes with a little less disdain than usual, leaning closer to Martin and Sasha so they can hear him. Before Martin has the time to even think up a retort, the song breaks into the chorus, and that’s when he realizes where he’s heard it before.</p><p>“<em>And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night... </em> ” On the small makeshift stage, Tim is swinging his hips to the beat, swirling the mic chord, raising one of his fists into the air. “<em>And he’s watching us all in-the-eye…</em>”</p><p>Oh, that’s an <em>ugly </em>high note. They all collectively wince.</p><p>“<em> ...OF THE TIGER!</em>”.</p>
<hr/><p>Jon gives quick glances at the pub door and at his watch. He’s crafting an escape plan, mostly certain that one hour of being here is enough time for his exit to be polite. He’ll claim tiredness (not that he isn’t, so is it really a lie?), say goodbye to Sasha, and slip through the door when Tim isn’t looking. He’ll enjoy catching up with his work at home, or even checking out <em> Our Planet </em>on Netflix (he’s heard good things about it, alright?). Anything, really, to avoid being roped into a performance: if anyone from the Archives hears him sing Jon <em>knows </em>he’ll never hear the end of it. </p><p>He’s just putting the finishing touches on his impenetrable, perfect, genius plan when Sasha stands and Tim ducks into their booth (“Out-sing <em>that,</em>” he dares Sasha. She rolls her eyes and punches him on the shoulder in response, scoffing. “You call <em>that </em>a karaoke performance?”). Then she’s off to the stage.</p><p>Situated squarely behind the mic and gripping it with easy confidence, Sasha nods, grinning, and then the stage’s lights turn dark red as her song’s deafening keyboard riff begins to blast through the speakers. </p><p><em> “We’re leaving together, but it’s still farewell,” </em> she begins. Jon’s lips curl up in a small smile. He can hear Tim whisper a small, shocked “what the fuck” to Martin. She has a surprisingly powerful voice, one that allows her to do justice to the original version. She powers through the first verse with her eyes closed, both hands curled around the mic and her brows furrowed in concentration. The three of them watch, completely still and rapt, in a silence interrupted only by Tim and Martin’s weird sounds and gasps of surprise.</p><p><em> “Will things ever be the same again?” </em> she croons, her voice lifting for the final line of the chorus. She <em>growls. “It’s the final countdown-”. </em> As the riff breaks through again and Sasha’s expression relaxes, Jon hears Martin softly chuckle. Even he catches himself nodding with a smile spread across his face. It’s Tim who proffers the most explosive reaction, his face a picture of pure shock. He buries his face in his hands and groans:</p><p>“She fucking <em> played </em> us.”</p><p>The three of them dissolve into laughter.</p>
<hr/><p>Martin glances once again at their booth, trying to make out Tim and Sasha’s faces through the multi-colored darkness of the pub. Sasha’s holding a bright yellow cocktail and talking to his boss, but upon meeting his gaze she turns her face away from the conversation to smile brightly at Martin (who can’t tell if she’s extra-supportive or tipsy) and almost drops her drink to hold both of the thumbs in the air. He nods, smiles a little, and hurries up the stage. </p><p>The first thing he notices is the blinding white light that hits him right in the face and makes him squint. Maybe it’s good: he feels like he would run away if made to confront all those faces, lifting their eyebrows, rolling their eyes, whispering to their friends, looking at him with pity. </p><p>No: instead there is just white light, absorbing him into a different moment. Well, almost. When the first beats of the song begin to drum through the room, there are Tim and Sasha’s unmistakable voices. His low voice and her high pitch, both screaming in chorus “YES, MARTIN!”</p><p>His hands are sweating, so he hides them inside his pockets. In the brief moments, before he begins singing, he feels his panic spiraling wildly and squeezing at his chest, and berates himself for being so easy to convince of such bad ideas. </p><p>It’s a good thing that he chose a song that he can remember by heart, he thinks, or he would have fully blanked out by now. He blames Sasha and her extremely compelling guilt-tripping (“Martin! <em> It’s my birthday</em>!”). </p><p><em> “I tried to discover a little something to make me sweeter.” </em> He half-sings and half-speaks, playing it safe. “<em>Oh, baby, refrain from breaking my heart </em>.”</p><p>The sound of his voice surprises him, all of its quirks and imperfections heightened by the speakers. Through the warm buzz of the nervousness ringing in his ears, he hears Tim and Sasha’s (and is that Jon’s) voices join him for the pre-chorus. As the song picks up, he hears some other tables joining in as well. The blinding light in front of him turns purple, red, blue, orange, white again. </p><p>“<em>Soul, I hear you calling...” </em> Martin still has his hands in his pockets, but he’s sure he must be smiling now. “<em>Oh, baby, please, give a little respe-ect to-o-o me-e. </em>”</p><p>Martin notices that he probably screwed up that last note, and that his cheeks are probably redder than they’ve ever been. He thinks, for a second, about how dumb he must be looking—then he decides that it doesn’t matter.</p>
<hr/><p>Tim is not exactly sure how it happens. He’s shit-talking some people from the archival storage with Sasha, and she’s laughing in his ear, and then he turns his head and—</p><p>“Sa-<em> Sasha. The stage. </em> Oh, god, Sasha, it’s Christmas Day.” He points, childlike smile gracing his face, brows lifted in wonder. He hears something between a laughter and a gasp, and sees Sasha covering her mouth in concern. They exchange a loaded look. She’s reaching for her phone when Martin arrives from the bar, holding their drinks.</p><p>Poor Martin’s noticed and looks like he is about to have a heart attack, so he sits down quickly (a little clumsily), his eyes fixed too on the small, scrawny man onstage. </p><p>The Jon he knows would never climb onstage, Tim rationalizes, and though that man’s mind does hold a lot of useless information, Tim’s <em>certain </em>the full lyrics to <em> We Didn’t Start The Fire </em>are not included in the package. So there must be <em>another </em>person with a horrible green vest, old man pants and long greying hair in this pub, because that can’t be <em> Jon</em>.</p><p>And yet the voice is unmistakable.</p><p>
  <em> “Harry Truman, Doris Day, Red China, Johnnie Ray </em>
</p><p>
  <em> South Pacific, Walter Winchell, Joe DiMaggio” </em>
</p><p><em> Damn, </em> he thinks, <em> he’s good. </em> Jon doesn’t hesitate through the entirety of the first verse: it’s almost like he’s not breathing, and yet his voice is almost never off-key. When the verse ends, Tim hears a group of drunken people clap. Jon doesn’t even grace them with a smile: under the green lights his eyes are closed, his head bobbing up and down to the rhythm of the song with a look of concentration in his face. For someone so… small, he thinks, it’s surprising that he can channel so much energy into a karaoke performance. </p><p>Tim slowly turns to gaze at Sasha, who has captured the entire performance on her phone in bewilderment.</p><p>“Today, I can die peacefully. This is a pivotal moment in my Magnus Institute experience. This is all I ever wanted,” he says. His mouth hasn’t closed for a second except to form shocked words. “Sasha, thank you so much.” </p><p>“I haven’t done anything, Tim, but you’re welcome”, she replies, similarly gobsmacked.</p><p>“Wait,” Martin intervenes. “If you two didn’t do anything, why did he…?”</p><p>“Get in there? I don’t...”</p><p>Jon begins singing again, so Tim doesn’t bother finishing his sentence.. “<em>Hypodermics on the shores, China's under martial law, Rock and roller cola wars, I can't take it anymore!</em>” And he has <em>actually </em>lifted his fist in the air, <em> genuinely </em>singing in a high-pitched voice that carries the most passion he’s ever seen him display, ever. The three of them dissolve into a mix of curses and expressions of surprise as Jon slides into the final chorus. “<em>We didn't start the fire,</em>” he sings, in a high-pitched voice. “<em>It was always burning since the world’s been turning.</em>”</p>
<hr/><p>Sasha sways under the blue lights of the stage. “<em>Every now and then I get a little bit lonely, and you’re never coming ‘round</em>”</p><p><em>"Turn around-</em>” And that’s Tim, singing with a pained expression.</p><p>Back in their booth, Jon has a puzzled expression in his face. Martin notices how still he sits, his only movement being sipping on the bright-pink cocktail Tim gave Jon an attempt to calm him down. </p><p>The three of them interrogated him as soon as the song ended, Martin recalls. Tim jumped from his seat and met Jon halfway, embracing him until they all realized that Jon was in a state more similar to shock than post-karaoke bliss. His answers were mostly elusive. <em> No</em>, he didn’t want to sing — someone confused him for a friend and pushed him onstage. <em> No</em>, he’s never heard that song in his life. <em> Yes</em>, he had experience singing, and <em>no, Tim, he’s not elaborating on it</em>. Then <em> Eclipse of The Heart </em>started and Sasha dragged Tim to the stage, leaving Jon and Martin sitting next to each other. </p><p>It was a fun rendition, for all that Tim claimed to hate that song. He holds a hand over his chest, an exaggerated sadness in his face, which is probably how he imagines the song deserves to be sung. His voice is a stark contrast to Sasha’s, particularly when he butchers a note or two or when they try to sing a falsetto (“<em>And we’ll only be making it right</em>”). Overall: ridiculous, but somewhat heartwarming.</p><p>But Martin can’t pay attention to their performance. He is thinking, in the back of his mind, about the man sitting beside him. He wouldn’t assume that Jon shares his aversion to stages, but by the way he answered their questions earlier and his quietness, Martin worries. So he decides to make one last attempt at conversation.</p><p>“Um, Jon, is everything—you feeling alright?”</p><p>“Yes, Martin,” he answers dryly.</p><p>“Okay, just checking in.” Martin shuffles in his seat. “You looked a bit out of it after that performance.”</p><p>Jon sighs, and lowers his head. He seems to pick up on Martin’s worry, because he answers in a different tone, less like the one he uses in the Archives. Makes him seem a bit more human. </p><p>“No, I really am fine. I’m trying to make sense of what just happened. It was… strange, like—” he shakes his head, struggling to find words to describe the feeling. “Like there was something... bigger than me, pushing me, pouring that information out of my brain.”</p><p>“Huh. I imagine.”</p><p>“I must have heard those lines earlier today. Maybe in the office, or on our way down here.”</p><p>Martin doesn’t remember seeing that song on Tim’s playlist, but the explanation seems to calm Jon down, so he doesn’t say anything. </p><p>“Yeah”, he replies softly. The conversation seems to be helping Jon, he notes, a little happier. “Anyway, it was good. Were you ever… um, in a band, or something?”</p><p>Martin sips on his drink, his cheeks turning red when he starts thinking about what a dumb question that is. </p><p>But then Jon actually answers: “Yes. It was more punk than pop, but I guess the energy is similar.”</p><p>There is a brief silence as Martin tries to process those words. Jon adds, matter-of-factly and wholly inappropriate to the catatonic shock Martin is experiencing, “I was in choir, too.”</p><p>Martin tries desperately not to choke into his drink. “Sorry?” he splutters, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.</p><p>“All through primary and high school. My grandmother insisted. The band was in college”:</p><p>“Oh. Did you like it?” <em> God, Martin, how much cringier can you get? </em></p><p>“Yeah, it was… thrilling, I guess? I enjoyed this too, it felt…”</p><p>Silence.</p><p>“...a little like when I read statements.” Jon falls into a contemplative silence, rubbing his jaw.</p><p>Martin rolls his eyes and nods, awkwardly. “That's. Um.”</p><p>Jon’s eyes are sizing him up. “I know it’s weird, Martin.”</p><p>“No! I mean, maybe. But it’s fine. I never pegged you for a... singer.”</p><p>“Not a <em> singer.”</em> Jon stresses with a smile, emphasizing this last word. “Please don’t share this with Tim or Sasha, Martin. I’d never hear the end of it.”</p><p>Martin’s thoughts are inclined nowhere near that direction. Instead, his mind is racing, confusedly and rapidly switching between images of a young Jon in a mosh pit, with eyeliner and all-black clothes, and an even younger Jon dressed in white, the moody kid in the school choir. Martin gulps before he pulls his wits together enough to continue.</p><p>“Oh, for sure. They still recorded the whole performance, though. Um. Good luck getting rid of that video?”</p><p>A groan. “Oh, Jesus.”</p><p>They stay like that for a while, enveloped in slightly more comfortable silence. Carry out some perfunctory small talk afterward, mostly about the karaoke performances. Tim and Sasha descend from the stage, and the evening carries on.</p><p>At some point, when all of them are sitting around the table and laughing, when Jon has loosened up and begun bitching about Elias, and Sasha is going for another cocktail, and Tim is talking about singing a Queen song just to be annoying today, Martin feels something like genuine happiness bubble up in his stomach, catch in his throat. Jon leaves soon after, mumbling things about having to get up earlier the next day as he hugs Sasha, wishing her a happy birthday. He slips into his black coat and smiles (he smiles!) and leaves. </p><p>Later, Martin does the same. The coldness outside the pub surprises him, and he burrows into his scarf to protect himself from the weather. As he makes his way across the yellow-lit streets, he remembers Jon’s singing. Walking into the tube station, he thinks about Jon’s laughter when he heard Tim, and about his smile when he heard Sasha. On his ride home, he thinks about him younger, singing, singing, and catches himself smiling in a way that he hasn’t smiled in years. </p><p>The realization startles him a little, so he decides not to think about it. </p><p>At least not for now.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>as I told Jeff, "YEAH TAKE THAT (cries for three hours about the inherent tragedy of jonmartin)"</p><p>i had a lot of fun writing this, so i hope you had fun reading it!</p><p>if you liked it, consider following me at <a href="https://anglrfish.tumblr.com"> anglrfish </a> on Tumblr, where I wrote <a href="https://anglrfish.tumblr.com/post/621998455345250304/tma-characters-cooking-abilities-rated-and">an ignored post rating the cooking abilities of everyone in TMA</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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